Prairie Burning

There is a man

who circles the perimeter

with a baby in his arms

unmoving.

Locusts burn

with the silhouettes

of saints at dusk.

Saints are in the cloud.

We are in a dry storm.

The man extends his circles

pulling the baby through

the cactus scrub.

Look at his melting trainers

in the heat,

they aren’t what he asked for.

There are black leather skids

on the dry stone wall.

People in black cloaks run

out of the corner of your eye.

A pig turns on a spit.

The prairie is a terrarium for the blaze

but the edge is dry of fire.

It is the height of one season,

bushes burn.

A burnt five-year-old

without eyelids

turns quick cartwheels

through the heat wave

under the big pale sky,

black and blue.